


The Great Trumpkin

by Leblanc1 (orphan_account)



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:51:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leblanc1
Summary: Halloween PromptQuinn and Carrie host a Halloween party in Brooklyn for Frannie.Mushy, fluffy and silly. And a tad political.Happy Halloween!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zeffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeffy/gifts), [koalathebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/gifts).



> Thrown together after two hours of insomnia last night - be kind.  
> Inspired by Quinn-Mathison lipstick application, Zeffy's LJ prompt and Koalathebear's Halloween smut prompts: “Bobbing for apples is gross. If I’m going to swap spit with a stranger, I’d rather just make out with you.”

“Quinny, this party is _awe-some_! It beats the lame-o balloon guy. _That_ was a crap party."

“Damn straight, Frannie-pants. And don’t say ‘crap.’ Hold still while I put this lipstick on you. Fuck, how do women do this?”

“Don’t say the f-word. You owe me another ten dollars.”

“Don’t say ‘lame-o.’”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m temporarily lame. Definitely don’t have ED though.”

“What’s ED?”

“Elephant diapers.”

“It is _not_!”

“You’re all set, Buffy. Go slay some vampires.”

As Frannie hopped off, her blonde wig dissolving into the cloud of dry ice smoke, another blonde wig of a decidedly more horrific type emerged from the white haze.

“Christ, Carrie, you’re going to scare the kids.”

“That’s the point, Quinn. By the way, that’s the worst lipstick application I have ever seen. Buffy looks like Angel just French kissed her.”

“Where? I’ll shoot him.”

Inside the thick rubber costume covering Carrie’s entire head, Quinn heard her snort as he looked her up and down.

“Carrie, you need about ten inches and two hundred pounds to resemble Trump in that getup.”

“Hey, it’s your fucking suit. I hear you had some kickass things to say about Raqqa last time you wore it. It could have been your costume tonight. Dress up like an actual productive working man.”

“Easy, Trump girl. Slouchy hobo is working for me. And Frannie likes me around."

“Baggy pants and a grey sweatshirt is hardly the Halloween spirit.”

“Carrie, I’ve been in costume for a month. Why change now?”

“I’m rolling my eyes at you. Can you see them through the holes in this thing? Anyway, I need your help.”

Carrie holds up a red tube.

“What’s that?”

“Fake blood. You need to smear it on the latex where the axe is lodged in his head. My head. Whatever. I made a slit in the rubber for the axe. See?”

“You want me to smear blood on you?”

“Yes. Again. And if you’d get your hair cut, it would be almost as hot as the first time you did it to me."

“Wrong.”

“Why?”

“Carrie, you’re dressed up like Donald Trump with an axe in his head. I’ve never been _less_ attracted to you. Except for when you put on that fuckin’ wig last year. Epic turnoff.”

“You forget I know when a man is lying.”

“Nope. And, just so we’re clear, Carrie, don’t get to start grabbing the other moms’ pus.. Nevermind.“

“That’s the whole point! When I go to grab their, ahem, ladyparts, they get to take the tin foil axe and chop the side of my head off. That’s why you’re applying the blood. It's performance art. Think I should take it on the road?"

“This shit is sticky as fuck, by the way. My method worked better.”

“Your hand slicing days are over, Peter Quinn. Keep smearing.”

“Carrie, y’know, the pacifist Brooklyn parents at the vegan food table are not gonna be impressed by this gross display of violence.”

“Fuck ‘em. I’m modeling what every right-thinking feminist girl should do to this fucker. At least _I’m_ not a party pooper.”

“Carrie, look around. I’ve booked a fortune teller, a skeleton serving blood punch – alcoholic and non – a strobe light which is about to activate another stroke in me, cackling witches blaring on Sonos, and apple bobbing. The best your last boyfriend could manage was helium dachshunds.”

“Hotdog dogs. And there was no helium.”

“Exactly. Okay, you’re all set. Fake blood applied. Go bob for apples, Mr. Trump, before Hillary decapitates you.”

Carrie brings her hands up to her neck and peels off the rubber Trump head revealing a flushed face and a flirty smile.

“How’s that attraction-meter working for you now, hobo man?”

“Zero to a hundred in seconds flat. The bun thing works for you.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to bob for apples.”

“Why not?”

“Bobbing for apples is gross. If I’m going to swap spit with a stranger, I’d rather just make out with you.”

“Done.”

Through the strobe-blinking haze, Frannie smiles as she watches Quinn back her mom into the dark corner, his hand tangling into Carrie’s makeshift bun, their lips locked in passion.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ascloseasthis and snqa for the quick beta read this morning. And for the title.  
> And to Cheesecake for inventing "Quinny!"


End file.
